


A Kind of Family

by Katzedecimal



Series: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor... What, son? [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, that's about it really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1290607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange apparition of Jim Moriarty suddenly appeared all over London, then vanished.  Shortly after, Anderson brings Sherlock and John into a scene that leads to a startling revelation.  Turns out, that's only the beginning.</p><p>Set just after the end of HLV</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock! _Sherlock!_ " John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You know, it would help a lot if you were to stop throwing things."

"Throwing things helps," Sherlock retorted as he flung a beaker full of unnameable fluids. 

John tipped his head and held up his hands, "Alright, fine, if it helps, it helps. You've been under a lot of pressure lately, fine. But this isn't helping us deal with Moriarty!" Sherlock blew out his breath and flopped onto the couch then jumped up again with a yelped curse. John shook his head as Sherlock pawed around himself to find several glass and ceramic shards jabbed into his back. "Oh, you idiot... **This** is why flinging glass and pottery around isn't such a good idea. Come on." And he dragged Sherlock off to the bathroom. 

"If it **is** Moriarty," Sherlock grumbled, wincing as John plucked the shards from his flesh, "What we **saw** was a poorly-animated gif and a sound byte."

"True," John said as he pulled off Sherlock's shirt. He wet a flannel to wipe away the blood. 

"I thought for certain I'd closed the last of his network."

"With a network that pervasive, I'm not sure that's actually possible. You're in luck, you won't need stitches. Should only take a few butterfly plasters to close this one." Sherlock fell silent while John worked. John glanced at him from time to time, to see his friend's eyes looking distant and empty. It bothered him. "Come on," he said finally, "Let's get you into a fresh shirt then I'll help you clean up." 

Sherlock just nodded. He shrugged into a t-shirt then he and John picked up the largest shards and broken objects. "Mrs. Hudson!" he called down the stairs, "I'll need to borrow your hoover!" He returned with the vacuum cleaner and ran it about the flat while John made tea in the kitchen. He emptied the cannister before returning it then finally sat down - gingerly - on the couch and put his head in his hands. 

John pushed a cup of tea towards him. "Can we be certain it's not him?"

"Gunshot through the roof of the mouth is theoretically survivable but he looked pretty dead from where I was standing."

John had to grin at Sherlock's cynical tone. "So more likely to be some hangers-on then. A Moriarty fan club, perhaps."

"Oh, wouldn't that be marvellous," Sherlock groaned.

"It's possible."

Sherlock shook his head, "Not if they managed to hijack every broadcasting frequency in London. No, this is the start of something. Something big. Something significant."

John nodded sympathetically, "Just when we thought it was over."

"It's not over, John," Sherlock sighed, "It's just getting started. It's going to get worse and it'll be terrible."

"It's not like you to be so doom-and-gloom," John grinned.

Sherlock gave him a sad look, "John... Ask yourself - Where's your wife?"

John's face froze. "Mary? She's... She's with Mrs...." Sherlock shook his head and he trailed off, suddenly realising that Mary hadn't followed him into the flat. "Oh god... Do not... Do **NOT** tell me that _my wife_ is involved in this!"

Sherlock looked away then looked back, "The balance of probability, John."

"...oh, **_CHRIST!_** " John howled. Sherlock passed him a mug, then a petri dish, then a plate. 

"Sherlock, for heaven's sake, dear, you just hoovered!"

"It's not me this time, Mrs. Hudson!" 

Once again he and John picked up the shards and once again Sherlock borrowed the hoover. Finally John sat on the couch and buried his face in his hands. "Just... Just shut up a bit, alright? No more of this. I can't take this."

"None of this was my idea, John! If you'll recall, I was being shipped out to Europe." Sherlock leaned against the door frame then kicked it savagely. 

John looked up at him, for once looking at him through his professional eyes. When he realised what he was seeing, he felt terribly guilty. "I know," he said gently, "Come here." He drew Sherlock to sit beside him and held his hands, "Are you alright?"

Sherlock didn't meet his eyes, "Yes, of course I'm alright."

"Well, you have killed a man."

Sherlock tilted his head towards him with a Look, then looked away again with a half-smile, "It's true... But he wasn't a very nice man."

John started to grin, "No, he really wasn't, was he? And a bloody awful newspaperman." They broke into giggles, leaning against each other until their foreheads touched. He glanced up and the look in Sherlock's eyes made his insides wrench.

Sherlock's mobile rang. "Sherlock? It's Phil. You're going to want to see this."

"Anderson? What is it? What's happened?" Sherlock glanced quickly at John. 

"I arrived at one of my check-in points; it's a broadcasting company." Sherlock thumbed up the volume so that John could hear better. "And I smelled fresh cleaner, too fresh. I went into the room where it smelled strongest and then I went to get my kit. Hang on, I'm switching to video."

Sherlock tilted the phone towards John and they watched as the video panned over a shelving unit. Sherlock nodded, "I see. They missed a few spots."

"Yeah," came Philip's voice, "So I got my lamp." He switched on the UV lamp and both men gasped.

Sherlock looked at John, who nodded. "We're on our way."

* * * *

The room was part of a small community television recording studio. The moment he'd entered the hallway, Sherlock understood what Philip had meant - the smell of cleaner was faint but very definitely present, but it was the kind of cleaner that had tripped their red flags. Sherlock knelt to inspect the wainscotting where Philip had found the first tiny drops of blood spatter, then he looked up at the walls. They seemed spotless until Philip threw the UV lamplight onto them and the blood spatter residue stood out. 

"God..." John breathed.

Philip nodded, "Yeah. But with that much spatter, you'd expect to find a high-calibre round, wouldn't you? But there's nothing, no bullet holes, no traces, and the CCTV shows nobody entered the studio after the regular man. And look up top there."

Sherlock reached up overhead with his forceps and withdrew a tiny shard stuck in the shelving unit. He inspected it closely. "Bone," he announced, "With a bit of brain tissue."

"A high-calibre round won't cause **that.** _This_ looks more like our fellow's head exploded!"

Sherlock frowned. "John, sit down here." 

John sighed but obeyed, sitting in the chair presumably last occupied by the apparent victim. He felt Sherlock moving behind him, sighting along John's ears towards the shelf. "You're thinking of the same thing I am," he said in a low voice. 

Sherlock nodded slowly. "This wasn't a gun. There was no one else in here. This was done by remote."

"How?"

John glanced at both of them, "I've seen this. It's a tiny explosive device implanted under the skin at the base of the skull."

Philip paled, "Jesus!"

"Whomever did the clean-up was already on site," Sherlock said.

"So this was planned by someone who knew that you were being exiled," Philip said. 

Sherlock looked at him sharply, "Why do you say that?"

"The timing," Philip said promptly, "This went out only a couple of minutes after your plane lifted off, right? So someone jumped the gun and someone else got pissed about it because look here." He called up the site schedule, "There's a time window here where there's no coverage, no observation. Odds are, they were **supposed** to wait for that window but they got excited by the news that Sherlock Holmes was gone and unable to return."

"That works," John said.

Sherlock nodded grimly. "Well spotted," he told Philip. He took out his phone and texted Molly. 

John followed him out but Sherlock was silent all the way back to Baker Street. Once there, John closed the door behind them and said, "Alright, you're very agitated by this. What is it?"

"It's obvious, John," Sherlock snapped, starting to pace, "It's so obvious even Anderson could spot it. Someone in MI6 is connected to Moriarty."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's nightmares have returned in more ways than one. Sherlock calls upon one of Philip's "talents" because at this stage, what has he got to lose?
> 
>  
> 
> Playing fast and loose with the canon in some places.

_Out of the corner of his eye, John saw it. The mine went up and the civilian went down. He shouted to his nurse as he rolled the woman over, noting her pregnant belly, her pale hair under her knitted watch cap. He smiled reassuringly and her pale eyes twinkled as she smiled then raised her gun and shot him through the shoulder._

_"Nurse! Nurse!" he screamed, "Put pressure on that wound."_

_"You were an army doctor," the nurse said conversationally. He pressed an ink blue scarf to the wound, "Any good?"_

_" **Very** good."_

_"Seen a bit of trouble, too, I expect. Violent deaths."_

_"Yes, enough. More than enough."_

_"Want to see some more?"_

_The smell of his rose corsage was heady and he brushed down his grey morning coat. He looked up at the pale eyes and sharp cheekbones he loved so very much and said, "I do."_

John jerked awake. He gasped for breath, feeling the intense ache in his shoulder that only came with the nightmares. His hand flailed wildly, feeling around beside himself, and he sighed with relief when it came to rest on his gun. He looked at the clock and blinked stupidly when he saw the time. 

He stumbled to the bathroom and filled the tumbler with water, downing it all in a gulp but it didn't quell the nausea. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Nope. Nope nope nope nope. His soldier's instincts were screaming at him. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. He didn't feel safe here. He'd been asleep barely more than an hour and here he was strung out already. 

He needed air. A walk would do the trick. So he walked, out into the London night, taking the buses and the Tube, sticking to the public areas, glancing up at the CCTV cameras. 

Sherlock opened the door himself. His puzzled glance swept over John, taking in his ruffled hair and his knapsack, then he stepped aside without a word. John went into the kitchen to make tea and looked up as Sherlock passed him, taking his knapsack upstairs to John's old bedroom. He still hadn't spoken and John found he didn't really want to talk. 

They took tea together and Sherlock put one of John's favourite programs on the telly. John sat beside him on the couch. He was sitting too close and they were nearly leaning against each other, but by the time he realised it, it was too late to care. "Mary didn't come home last night," John said.

Sherlock nodded, "Mycroft is looking for her."

"And she hasn't answered my messages."

"We'll find her, John," Sherlock replied in the soft voice that John had only heard him use when it was just the two of them. 

Just the two of them. 

He finished the tea and the telly and went up to his old bedroom. As he got into bed, he heard Sherlock tuning his violin, plucking the strings and giving them a few experimental strokes with the bow. He fell asleep quickly after that. 

* * * * 

Sherlock was dozing on the sofa when Philip tapped on the door then pushed it open and peeked in. "Ah, you are awake."

"I almost always am," Sherlock said, yawning as he stretched and sat up. 

Philip came in and closed the door behind him. "How is it going?" he asked softly. 

Sherlock shook his head, "Not good."

"Sorry," Philip sighed, "And I'm afraid I might be about to make it worse. I called in a few favours to follow up on your hunch." He handed Sherlock a USB stick. Sherlock took it and immediately flipped open his laptop. "What you told me about gunmen at Barts and at the pool, it turns out the company has contracts with some buildings in both areas and has cameras that overlook the relevant points. It took a bit of doing, they usually delete footage after a while so I wasn't sure there would be anything to find, but I got lucky. Here's overlooking the pool. It's hard to see but you can see enough of the body to get an idea of the height and build of the shooter. But this is what's really interesting." 

Sherlock turned to several images overlooking the roof of St. Bartholomew Hospital. He could see himself on the roof and the shape of John was a small spot down below. The dark unmoving shape of Jim Moriarty was barely visible but the silhouette of a gunman through a window was unmistakable. But what was more interesting was another shape on a different rooftop. He frowned, "The face is visible and the shooter is standing." He magnified the image and clarified it as much as he could. "The shooter is female."

"Yeah. Now if you watch the next few frames... uh, if you're able to, I don't know how much this is going to trigger you..." 

Sherlock waved him off irritably and forwarded the images. "I see," he said thoughtfully, "After I jumped, the female shooter took out the assassin who was covering John."

"What?"

They turned and saw John sitting near the bottom of the staircase, staring at Sherlock. Sherlock blushed when he realised he'd been examining the photographs so intently, he hadn't heard John waking up. "You never told me that," John said, "You never told me there was an assassin on me."

"Well yeah, what else would Moriarty use for leverage?" Philip said without thinking. Sherlock shot him glance. 

"Is that it? He used **me** as leverage to force you to jump?" John said, "And you didn't tell me?"

"It's hardly important now, John," Sherlock said, "What's _important_ right now is identifying this woman."

John glanced over Sherlock's shoulder then frowned, "Hang on, I think I've seen her before. Where have I seen her before?"

"John?"

"Yeah, I..." John closed his eyes and concentrated then shook his head, "Hang on, you know I'm not good at this..." Sherlock immediately went still, holding his finger to his lips to silence Philip. By now, Philip had learned enough about Sherlock's mind palace to recognise that John was trying the same trick. He held as silent as he could, trying not to fidget as they waited. "I think..." John finally opened his eyes, "I think Mycroft showed me a picture of her once. Some Russian assassin, I think he said. Lida? Ludi? I can't remember her name."

"Ludmila?" Sherlock asked, reaching for his phone to send a text.

"Yeah, something like that, I think. I think... Mycroft said she had moved into a flat nearby? I think I saw her in the neighborhood a few times."

Sherlock tented his fingers, looking uncharacteristically worried. He glanced up at Philip, "Do you still have facial recognition software?"

Philip shook his head, "I had to give it back when I was sacked, but I can call in some favours."

"Do that."

John looked from one man to the other, "Wait, why do you want facial recognition software? Oh god, Sherlock, you can't honestly think..." His voice trailed off as Sherlock pulled up a picture of Mary from the wedding. Even at the distance and poor resolution of the CCTV image, there was a superficial resemblance. 

It took a few hours to get clear images of Mary Watson and Ludmila Dyachenko and to get them put through the software on the sly. John said nothing the entire time, just sipped his tea and listlessly ate a sandwich that Mrs. Hudson had prepared for him. But finally, the results were downloaded to Sherlock's laptop. 

Height and body build - match.   
Facial shape and structure - match.  
Orbit width and distance - match.   
Shape of collarbones and hands - match.  
Angle of hips to knees - match. 

And finally, the most difficult to obtain and the longest to scrutinise, scleral capillaries, the blood vessels veining the whites of the eyes. 

Match. 

John put his face in his hands. 

"Mycroft says she took the flat directly across from 221B," Sherlock said very softly, "From the angle she was sitting at on that rooftop, most likely she was assigned to shoot me if I didn't jump and shoot the other assassin if I did. Then she changed her face and took a job as your nurse assistant so she could monitor you for signs that I might still be alive."

"And if she had...?" Philip prompted.

"Most likely she was to shoot John," Sherlock finished.

"Why shoot the other assassin? Why not just shoot John herself?"

Sherlock tapped his tented fingers against his chin, "Mmm, possibly Moriarty didn't want them talking, possibly he didn't have enough of his own that he trusted, to go around. No idea, really. The more I talked to the man and learned about him, the more I suspect the reason is 'just because.' Perhaps it amused him, a sort of 'jerk the carrot away' game with higher stakes. I suspect he expected to live to be amused, however."

"You said," came John's low monotone, "That I chose her. You and she both said that I saw this in her."

"You must have recognised her, subconsciously," Sherlock said, "And that drew you to her, like a moth to a flame. You just can't resist that kind of-"

**"SHUT! UP!"** Sherlock's mouth snapped shut and he looked up at John apologetically. "You are... You are telling me... That my wife.. _my wife,_ Sherlock, was working for Moriarty..."

"You already knew she was an assassin," Sherlock said, sounding distracted as his fingers suddenly flew over the keys. 

"Yes, yes, thank you for that, you got her to admit that when _she shot you._ "

"And I highly doubt she's actually Russian, though I don't doubt Russian-trained," Sherlock reached for his phone and sent off a couple of texts. Philip's phone chirped. 

"And now, now you're telling me that, that she only took her job with me so that she could **kill me** if I thought you were alive?!"

"That was why I _couldn't tell you_ , John!" Sherlock yelled back. They stared at each other, anguish naked on both of their faces. 

John sat down and rubbed his face with his hands. "How long have you known? That Mary was working for Moriarty?"

"Just now," Sherlock said.

"What made you suspect?"

"A highly-trained assassin signs on as a nurse in the office of a man who was to be shot if I didn't die? A bit much to be a coincidence. The Universe is rarely so lazy."

John looked away, feeling helpless as it all sunk in. "You couldn't explain it to me? Any of it?"

"John, I just _told_ you..."

"I meant after! You told me about Moriarty's network but you didn't tell me _this._ For God's sake, Sherlock, why not? Why couldn't you tell me?" The silence drew out until John's face clouded with disappointment. Finally he looked up, "Is that bacon?"

"Ah... I hope you don't mind.. I made tea and breakfast," Philip poked his head out of the kitchen. 

Sherlock looked up, "If you were thinking of steak and kidneys, don't use those kidneys!"

John felt his tension break as he burst into giggles, "Oh God...! Words never said in anybody else's kitchen, anywhere."

* * * *

He still hadn't heard from Mary. 

John sat in his old chair, trying to read the newspaper and watching as the detective and the forensic technician stared at the images pinned to the wall and speculated about them. "Do the other thing you're good at," Sherlock had told Anderson, "Wild speculation without benefit of facts." Anderson had shot him a Look then retorted with "Maybe it's his evil twin," and been slightly surprised when Sherlock actually wrote that on a sticky note and tacked it up. "Figurehead? Someone else has taken over the reins?" Another sticky note. "Clone? They're getting close to that." Another sticky. 

"Guy's like a bloody hydra," John sighed. Both men snapped their heads around to look him then Sherlock wrote 'Hydra' on a sticky and put it up, then ran a thread between it and the 'figurehead' sticky. Then he wrote 'MI6?' on another one and tacked it up. 

John turned the page he was reading then abruptly folded the newspaper up and threw it down with a snarl. Sherlock looked around, "What's wrong?"

"Kitty Riley's back. There's a name I never wanted to see again," John sighed.

Sherlock snatched up the paper and turned to the article, then turned the paper over and looked at the name. Then he was back at his case wall, scribbling 'Kitty Riley' onto a sticky and tacking it up. He pinned a picture of Charles Augustus Magnusson onto the wall and ran threads between him, Kitty Riley and Jim Moriarty. Then he ran one from Magnussen to MI6. 

Anderson's eyebrows shot up, "There's a connection?"

"Several, unfortunately."

"And a man like Magnusson could be very useful to an underground kingpin," Anderson thought out loud, "Redirecting media attention and so forth."

Sherlock snarled, not liking that hypothesis but unable to deny its plausibility. Then he tacked up a picture of Mary Watson and ran threads between her, Magnusson and Moriarty. Then he stood back and stared again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something about Mary.

(SH: You're certain?)

(Mycroft Holmes: I'm afraid so.)

(SH: John is not going to be happy about this.)

* * * *

"Thank you, Doctor Watson."

"Thank you, Mr. Harrison, it was good seeing you again. Just keep off that leg and it should heal up a treat in no time."

"Doctor Watson?"

"Ah, Miss Cumberland, it's been a while, hasn't it? And how is your frozen shoulder, was it?"

"It was. It's regained some flexibility but I can still only lift it to here."

"I see, and how is the pain?"

"Waking me up at night."

"I feel for you, Miss Cumberland, I really do. I had a frozen shoulder myself, once, it was almost as bad as the original injury. Let's write you a prescription for another cortisone shot, shall we? And some more physiotherapy."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson."

"There you are. Come back and let me know how it's going, alright?"

"Oh, Doctor Watson."

"Well, hel-LO Mrs. Havelock! And how are you today?"

"I'm doing much better now, Doctor. Those pills you gave me are wonderful!"

"Good, good. So you'll need them renewed, then?"

"Yes, please, Doctor Watson."

"No trouble at all, Mrs. Havelock. Here you are."

"Thank you so much, Doctor Watson."

"Doctor..."

"Ah, Terry Brindle, how are you?"

"...Fine."

"And what brings you in today?"

"Knee check-up."

"Post-op, that's right, you had surgery to remove some cartiledge last month. How's it feeling now?"

".....Better."

"Let's have a go at it, shall we? Alright? How's this?"

"....Better. 'S not grinding."

"Is everything alright, Terry? You're looking at me a bit odd."

"Well.... S'just.... I don't think I've ever seen you smiling before."

* * * * 

"Jesus.. They're certain?"

Sherlock nodded. "The evening of the incident, Mary was met by persons unknown at the home she shares with John. She went with them and we have been unable to locate her since. What's more, it appears to have been voluntary."

"God," Philip drew a shuddering breath, "What are you going to tell John?"

"John has been avoiding talking to me again."

Philip rubbed his forehead, "I'm really very sorry about that. I should have thought."

At this, Sherlock smiled widely, "Philip, you didn't do anything that I haven't done on a regular basis since I was a child. You spoke a truth that was plainly obvious to anyone, nothing more. And like most people, it was a truth John didn't want to face. If I blamed you for his reaction or said you did something wrong, I would be the biggest hypocrite on the face of the planet. It's not you I'm disappointed with; it's John."

"I can understand why," Philip nodded, "Lately... well... I've been wondering what you see in him. He's not really been... well...."

"That's why I'm disappointed," Sherlock sighed, "He's been acting all........" He waved his hand about, searching for a word.

"Ordinary?"

Sherlock nodded, "And it's killing him." 

* * * *

Room service was terrible but John had eaten worse, usually while on cases chasing after Sherlock Holmes. He sat on the bed in his hotel room and stared at his toes. 

What had happened to him? Was it really that bad? Had he really got so different that so many of his patients had said that he looked happy? Had his patients really never seen him smile? 

What hurt the most were the ones who'd said he was "nice, today." As though he was usually the opposite of nice. 

What had happened? 

What had happened to him? 

He poured himself a beer and flipped on the telly. He smiled to see _Some Like It Hot_ playing - a good old-fashioned comedy was just, a heh, what the doctor ordered. He settled in to watch and somewhere along the way, started to nod off.

_There was laughter and chatter and somewhere someone was sobbing but he wasn't really paying any attention to that. Instead he whirled and span with his partner, dancing the night away. His wonderful partner, so incredibly witty, so clever, who made him laugh and made him so happy. They danced together perfectly, like they were made for each other, their feet gliding smoothly over the blood-stained floor. He danced on, his partner's beautiful ivory gown swishing and swirling and he gazed into those pale eyes. This is wrong. The sound of the violin was so beautiful, playing just for them as he danced and span, oblivious to the smell of burning flesh and gunpowder. This isn't right. This isn't right at all._

_He slipped on the blood and stumbled, nearly tripping over the body of his partner, his wonderful partner, so still and pale. His wonderful partner, so incredibly witty and clever, who made him laugh and made him so happy. They'd danced together perfectly, like they were made for each other. He screamed at his nurse to put pressure on the wound but she didn't move and he looked up to see her holding the smoking gun, powder burns on her ivory gown. "You shot my partner," he cried, "Why would you do that?"_

_He stood up and tore the veil away from her face and gaped at the mad, mad eyes. "Well," Moriarty grinned, "Nobody's perfect."_

John jolted awake, blinking in time to see "The End" spread across the screen, obscuring the smiling face of Osgood and the baffled 'Daphne.' He fumbled for the remote to turn off the telly, then grabbed his overnight bag and headed back to Baker Street. 

He burst in to see Sherlock staring down at his phone. "You knew," he accused, "How long had you known?"

Sherlock looked puzzled, "Known what?"

"That she was related to Moriarty!"

Sherlock actually stared at him. "Molly only just texted me."

"When?!"

"Just now."

John sagged against the doorjamb, "So... you didn't..."

"I _suspected_ when I noticed the resemblance when I put their pictures up on the case wall. Clearly you noticed it as well. I sent off a request for DNA analysis then."

"And... You said Molly just now texted you?"

"Yes," Sherlock eyed John warily then took a deep breath and steeled himself, "Different mothers, same father."

**_ "She's his fucking SISTER?!" _ **

"Half-sister, John. Older by about two, maybe three years."

"Oh my fucking God..." He felt Sherlock take his arm and steer him gently towards his chair. "I married Moriarty's sister."

"It gets worse, John," Sherlock said in that gentle tone, "Mycroft's people traced her movements until they lost her. She did go home that night, where she was met by some people and went with them voluntarily."

"Oh my God." John put his face in his hands then looked up accusingly at Sherlock, " **You** kept saying I could trust her, even after she shot you!"

"And I still believe you can, John," Sherlock replied, still in that gentle voice, "I believe that she _was_ sent to assassinate you should my death have been proven to be false, and then to assassinate me. And I believe that she genuinely did fall in love with you and, against all probability, actually seems to like me." John smirked mirthlessly at that. "She had a choice to make and she chose you. I believe she will continue to choose you."

* * * * 

"What amazes me is that every time I think it can't get any worse, it does." He sighed and put his hands behind his back, looking out over the river, "For **years** we've been able to fly beneath Special Services' radar and then little brother had to go and develop that fascination with that detective fellow." He curled his lip in disgust, "And then Charles set his sights too high. Imagine, going after the Smallwoods! That man was entirely too sure of himself."

"You sent him after **me!** "

"Of course! I couldn't have you running rogue, you're our best operative!" He smirked, "Believing your own ruse, though, how very unprofessional."

"It's not a ruse!" she insisted then her voice dropped, "Not anymore."

"The damage that Special Services has done to our operations is simply astonishing. I was hoping to mislead them into believing that it was a one-man operation but even _that_ cover's been blown thanks to that idiot. Special Services definitely suspects now, I'm certain of it."

She glared at him but said nothing.

"I need you to close contract," he said finally. 

"No," she said firmly, "I won't. I won't do that sort of thing anymore."

"Oh but you will, 'Mary Watson,'" he smiled, "Special Services now knows entirely too much already and we cannot risk them learning more. But _we_ know his Achilles heel. The terms of 'Jim's' contract have been broken: Sherlock Holmes is alive, so Doctor Watson must be extinguished."

"No!"

He grinned, "This is your choice then, Sis: Either you eliminate Sherlock Holmes - _properly_ this time - or I order our baby brother's contract to be fulfilled."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fluff and angst chapter, in which Anderson gets cooking and John gets hot.

It was a dark and stormy night. They'd used a couple of uniforms to go undercover as Philip's newest guards, allowing them to hide in plain sight as they staked out the building. A chase, a fight, a very tidy arrest with plenty of evidence to support a conviction, and Philip was ready to drop. It was a good thing his flat was nearby since John was equally exhausted and Sherlock hadn't eaten a thing for nearly three days. 

They sat at Philip's table, John struggling to focus while Philip put bread into the toaster, put oil in a fry pan on the hob, and drained a tin of clams. He threw a chopped onion and some garlic into the pan then added the clams and some curry powder and sherry. He put some of the clam juice into three glasses, added a shot of vodka to each and filled the rest of the glasses with tomato juice and some seasonings. By the time the toast popped, the clams were ready and literally within five minutes of removing their coats, the three of them were sitting down to clams on toast with bloody caesars. 

John ate, feeling nettled. He wasn't sure quite **why** he felt nettled, which nettled him even more. And Sherlock was snarfing them -- mind you, the man would eat cold beans straight from the tin if he was fresh off of a case, so perhaps it wasn't **that** much of a surprise that he would tuck into tinned clams quite so readily. Still, it nettled John and he just didn't know why. "Ta much, Phil," John said, watching Sherlock to make sure he didn't eat so fast as to overwhelm his starved system, "I've no idea how you manage to cook like this but I'm grateful."

Philip drained his glass and wiped his mouth then smiled, "Thanks. I'm no Jamie Oliver but I manage."

"You manage well enough to get this git to polish his plate, that's good enough for me," John smirked. Philip just grinned. Sherlock took out his phone to call a cab, which John took as his cue to get his jacket, "Thanks for all your help on this one."

"Always a pleasure," Philip agreed as he saw them out. 

All the way back to 221b, John couldn't settle his mind. He listened to Sherlock babble about the case, shaking his head with amazement. It just never got old to him, the way Sherlock could pull a complete picture out of the most ordinary details. It all seemed so easy and obvious when he explained it, which just impressed John even more. 

But what really impressed John was the way Sherlock was yawning. The wee nip of vodka had been just the trick to knock Sherlock off his feet. "Come on, sleepyhead," John said fondly after paying the cabbie, "Let's get you up to bed."

* * * *

_Someone was in pain but he was dancing and the sweet violin filled his ears. He looked around, wondering where his best man had got to but he didn't see him anywhere. Finally he spotted him, with another man in an oatmeal jumper, somebody who went on crime scenes with him, somebody who admired him, somebody who could cook for him. John couldn't cook. John could just about make a passable fry-up and that was about it. He took a drink of his bloody caesar and gagged as the taste of iron filled his mouth._

_He stared as the blood overfilled the glass and ran out onto the floor. "Don't worry about him." He turned and saw Mary behind him, smiling, "He doesn't need you anymore." She raised her gun and shot Sherlock through the heart and John cried out in horror. "You have me now," Mary smiled, "Did you miss me?"_

John gasped awake. He could hear the violin downstairs and collapsed back onto his pillow in relief. Sherlock was alive, safe.... wasn't he? It dawned on him that someone could have kidnapped or killed Sherlock and left a recording of his violin playing to fool John and suddenly he shot up out of bed and down the stairs. 

The violin stopped as Sherlock looked around. "John?"

John stared at him - alive, whole, safe, puzzled - and abruptly felt embarrassed. Of course Sherlock was safe, of course he was alive. "Just... having trouble sleeping," he said, which was mostly the truth. He went to the kitchen for a cup of water. "I guess I just got used to having someone else in bed with me," which wasn't mostly the truth. 

Sherlock continued watching him. His eyes were red rimmed, slightly swollen, and John realised that he'd been asleep. Sherlock was finally sleeping and John had woken him up with his panic... No, if he'd just wakened, why was he playing his violin? "Go back to bed, John," Sherlock said, setting his violin gently into its case. John finished his water and slunk back up the stairs. 

He'd settled back into bed and berated himself for his foolishness. It must have been his nightmare that had wakened Sherlock. Was he that loud? Did he scream? And then Sherlock played his violin... His bedroom door opened and John automatically reached for his gun before recognising the tall silhouette. "Sherlock? What's... Hang on, what the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Sherlock settled onto the bed, forcing John to budge over. "You said you sleep better with a bedmate," he said matter-of-factly, pulling the blankets up over them both. 

"I meant Mary!"

"As Mary is unavailable, I thought you'd accept a substitute," Sherlock said dryly, "Really, John, the way you complain that I don't sleep, I would have thought you'd have no objections."

John really couldn't think of any that didn't sound patently ridiculous. "Alright, but... but no snuggling!" Like that.

Sherlock snorted, "Perish the thought." He rolled onto his side, turning his back, "Go to sleep, John."

"Yeah, right," John sighed, "G'night, Sherlock." 

He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, listening to Sherlock's breathing as it slowed and deepened into sleep, pulling John in after him. 

* * * * 

Sherlock stared at his case wall as though daring it to yield answers. He'd pulled quite a lot of the stickies away, placing them on a section titled "Unlikely," but many had been left. Philip noted that his own suggestions of 'figurehead' and 'evil twin' were still there, as was John's suggestion of 'hydra.' A picture of Sherlock and his big brother had been tacked nearby, as was a picture of a much younger John with his big brother Jack Watson, before Jack had died in a motorcycle accident at the age of 25. Sherlock and Mycroft looked nothing alike; their family resemblance was in personality traits, intelligence and certain facial expressions. John and Jack, however, were practically twins despite a three-year age difference. Both pictures were linked with a thread tagged "full brothers." 

Philip tapped the 'evil twin' sticky, "There's evidence supporting that. Not necessarily a twin, per se, but there's a brother."

Sherlock nodded, "That's what my informants discovered as well."

"On my days off, I went 'round a couple of the pubs in those areas, found people who'd gone to school with them. Classic profile, cats tortured, arson, cover-ups by the parents, the usual. The thing is, nobody could agree on which brother was James. It seemed like _both_ of them were named James - or James and Jim, at any rate."

Sherlock tented his fingers and tapped his lips, "Pseudonym, then. So it likely isn't the real name of either of them. Any information on the father?"

"Arrogant, businessman, travelled a lot, serial adulterer, suspected of embezzling but they could never find any proof so it was put down to jealous co-workers."

Sherlock wrote all that down on stickies and put them up. "Travelling adulterer, that explains Mary, which means there's likely to be more of them, half-siblings."

"And full siblings who may or may not belong to the man's original wife."

"So Moriarty's web may not even be Moriarty's."

"What if he was just filling a role? You know, like a referral agent? Referring clients to other departments of the business?"

"He was coming up with the plans," Sherlock said thoughtfully, "But yes, they almost certainly needed extra help to implement them and that could have come from other branches."

They stared at the case wall silently for a few minutes longer. "You seem sadder lately," Philip said at last, "What's up?"

"John still hasn't heard from Mary. It's got him worried."

"Worried for her or about her?"

"Yes exactly. I don't think he's decided which." They chuckled mirthlessly. "I'm told I've not been remembering to thank you for your meals after cases. The fish chowder was very good although it made us so drowsy, John couldn't make it up the stairs and we had to sleep in my room."

Philip's eyebrows jumped, "You're sleeping with him?"

"I think he worries about me, as well. He says he can't sleep without Mary in the bed but I could tell that he was lying. He certainly has a more restful night if I do sleep beside him. But no snuggling." 

The edge in Sherlock's voice made Philip shake his head. "Ah, don't worry about thanks," Philip said instead, "There's no better thanks to a bachelor cook than the sound of 'can't talk; eating' and a cleared plate."

Sherlock smirked, "I shall endeavour to remember that." Just then, his mobile chirped. "Ah, text from Lestrade."

Philip nodded, "I should get going anyways. I'm covering a shift, bloke phoned in sick."

Sherlock nodded, knotting his scarf around his neck. Philip followed him out, then they went their separate ways. 

* * * *

_"Am I a vegetable?" he slurred._

_"You or the thing?" and they both broke up laughing._

_He was nicely drunk, they'd cruised lots of pubs and nearly gotten into a fight. He was having the best time ever and time had slowed to a crawl. He leaned forward and put his hand on his best friend's knee and asked in all seriousness, "Am I pretty?"_

_"Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions and rolemodels," Sherlock said but John heard "Yes."_

_He slumped back in his chair, spreading his legs wide and propping his stocking feet nearly touching Sherlock's. He resisted the urge to wiggle his toes but only barely._

_"So I'm human," Sherlock slurred, "I'm nice-ish, I'm clever, I'm important but I rub people the wrong way." He laughed and leaned forward, nearly toppling into John's spread lap, "I'm **you**."_

_"Go on, then," he said and God knew where his pants and trousers had got to because they were around his ankles now. "Go on." And Sherlock smiled that smile that dazzled John as much as his brilliance and opened his mouth and his clever, clever tongue..._

John gasped awake, shuddering. He swallowed hard, trying to calm his electrified nerves. He tried to calm his breathing, desperately hoping that Sherlock wasn't awake but the slow, steady breathing of his ~~boy~~ friend told him that he was still asleep. They'd had a mediocre case, they'd needed Anderson's help to retrieve evidence from a guard's locker, and afterwards Anderson had fed them on buttered crab on toast, asparagus and sherried consomme. John had no idea how Anderson managed to make jarred asparagus and tinned crab edible but Sherlock had polished it off. 

Whereas John practically had to bribe him to get him to eat. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scents of expensive bath products, weird chemicals, merino wool and the sharp musk that was uniquely _Sherlock,_ and let it out in a heavy sigh. His pyjama bottoms were growing clammy and he could feel his semen liquifying and starting to drip down his thigh, but he didn't want to risk waking Sherlock to fetch a fresh pair (not merely because he would have to explain why he needed fresh pyjamas in the first place.) 

He skootched a little closer to his friend's ~~love's~~ warmth with another sad sigh. He was losing ~~his~~ Sherlock. Losing him to someone who could cook and get him to eat without argument, who had far better crime scene knowledge than John ever would, and who worshipped him even more than John did (and wasn't that a turn-around?) 

But that was fine, wasn't it? John was a married man, though he hadn't seen or heard from his wife, his pregnant wife, in too many days now. John was married and he wasn't gay, he was straight. Anderson was straight. Anderson was fine with Sherlock being a man. Anderson could make it work. Anderson the idiot can do something that you can't.

Anderson looked up from where he was snogging Sherlock and gave John a saucy leer. "Guess you can't say you've never backed down from a challenge anymore, can you?" he sniggered. 

John snapped awake again. _Oh, **bloody** hell!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a favour to ask of Anderson. Then Mary makes a move.

"Ta for this."

"Oh it's no problem, glad to help out," said Philip. He was showing John how to make a complete pork chop tea in less than twenty minutes. 

"I just never had the time to learn," John sighed, taking a sip of his beer, "What with interning and then the army. Then I was discharged and I can just about manage a fry-up."

Philip grinned, "I learned back in uni. Couldn't afford take-away all the time and developed an allergy to Pot Noodle."

"What, really?"

"You eat enough Pot Noodle and yes." They laughed. "Ah, I'm certain Gordon Ramsay would toss it in the bin with a stream of abuse but it's good enough for me falling in the door after a long shift."

"Or after a case with Sherlock," John agreed, with more laughter.

"Right, now push the chops aside and put the cabbage and onion in and just stir it around so it gets the oil on. Now a bit of caraway seed.. right. Now spread the cabbage out, put the chops on top, and dump in some of your beer."

"How much? I need a measuring cup? Or a graduated cylinder, around here."

"Nah, just pour it in. Yeah, that's about right. Now the potatoes on top and a bit of salt, then the lid on and turn the gas down a bit."

John did as instructed and shook his head, "I thought cooking had to be all precise?"

"Not when it's gone five in the morning and I'm lucky to have remembered my flat number," Philip laughed, "Nah, just approximate. With baking you have to be more precise but this stuff is super flexible. It's all improvising, you're good at that. If you don't have beer, you use wine or stock or tomatoes or water. If you don't have pork, use lamb or chicken."

John shook his head again, "As long as Sherlock eats it, I'm all for it." Philip tipped him a bit of a funny look but said nothing. "It's the devil trying to get him to eat nowadays. Used to be he'd filch bits off of my plate."

Philip grinned, "Really?"

"Yeah. I'd offer him some tea and he'd say no, then as soon as I'd sit down, he'd start sneaking bits off my plate when I wasn't looking." Philip laughed and John grinned. "I'd ask him if he'd changed his mind and he'd say 'No. You know I don't eat during a case,'" John did such a good Sherlock imitation that Philip nearly doubled over laughing. John's smile slowly faded, "He doesn't do that anymore."

Philip watched him carefully. "Since he came back?"

John nodded, staring at the pork chops, "Even after..." He trailed off. 

Philip popped the cap off another beer, "How's married life suiting you?"

John smirked, "Not so well lately but before, it was alright. Mary and I'd go to work - she was my nurse, y'see, that's how we met. Anyhow, we'd go off to work together and put in a day, then back home, she'd make tea and I'd put a load of laundry through. Then we'd watch telly for a bit. That last is really the only thing that's the same, with Sherlock." He chuckled, "Bloody Sherlock might be up already or never slept or he's sound asleep and snoring, the daft bugger. He just can't keep to a schedule. Then there's this," he patted the refrigerator, "You never know what you're going to find in here and there've been some rude surprises at six in the morning, let me tell you." They both laughed. "On second thought, maybe I should've got you to show me something other than pork chops. Mrs. Hudson's brought home pork chops, only to find he's kidnapped them for an experiment. Says they're the closest analogue to human flesh."

Philip burst out laughing. "It is and I've done the same thing. Drove my wife **crazy.** 'Philip, where's our bloody tea?', 'Down at lab,' I'd say and then there'd be a row."

"Oh my god, _yes,_ " John was giggling full-on now, "The rows! And Sherlock's sitting there looking all mystified, like he just _can't_ understand why Mrs. Hudson would be upset that her tea is now sitting in a bowl of iced Thames water."

"Doesn't everybody do that with pork chops?" Philip agreed, "I know, I know, the labs have special arrangements, but there are times when you just can't wait on an order and it's faster to just nip down to the Tesco and grab a nice bit of human analogue." 

John nearly fell over giggling. He wiped his eyes and said, "God, it's no wonder Sherlock's getting on with you."

Philip didn't miss the bitter, almost jealous edge in John's voice at all, any more than he'd missed the tightness when John spoke about Mary, or the way his voice and face softened into misty fondness when he talked about Sherlock. "Yes, well.. There's been a lot of effort on both our parts," he said, "He still thinks I'm an idiot but he does his best not to show it so much."

"Ah, he thinks everyone's an idiot, including me," John smiled, "I'm starting to think it's actually a term of endearment with him."

Philip shook his head, "He doesn't _really_ think you're an idiot. He talks quite a lot about how clever you can be."

John stared at him, "He talks about me?"

"Oh God yes! If he's in a downer, all I have to do is ask him about you and he'll just natter on about you, about a case or your blog or 'John's crap telly.'"

"Really," John said, lifting the lid off the pork chops to poke at them with a fork, "I would've thought it'd be nothing but complaints."

"Yes, the same way that you complain about him. And he says them the same way, the way that says he wouldn't change any of it."

John fell silent. He was saved from having to come up with a response by the door opening. Sherlock stepped into the living room then noticed the tableau. "Alright?" he said hesitantly. 

"We haven't set the smoke alarm off yet," John grinned at him, "It's good you're back. Tea's up. You can thank Phil for this, he coached me through it." Philip tipped his beer in salute. Sherlock smiled thinly and shoved a few experiments aside to make room at the table for three while John dished up the chops and vegetables.

"Lestrade's got a mugging," Sherlock said, glancing up at Philip. He pulled up a map on his phone and showed it, "The security cameras on this building should be at about the right angle. I told him to text you once he had a warrant."

Philip looked at the location and nodded, "I was 'round there this morning, thought it looked like there'd been a scuffle. Thanks."

"Mr. Hammerstein's had enough of you, has he?"

John's fork clanked against his plate. "I'm not even going to ask how you worked that out," he said in a fond tone that belied his apparent exasperation.

Sherlock smiled, "Obvious, John. You have a bit of ink on the outside edge of your palm and pinkie finger, imprinted there by a forceful thump on your desk, something you only do when you're very exasperated. For the past few days, you've been complaining about him complaining about you and since he's the only person you've been complaining about, it's not a huge leap to deduce that, today, he hit his limit and pushed you to yours."

"You arrogant sod," John chuckled, "You get all of that from a bit of ink?"

"And three days of complaining, yes," Sherlock smiled back. 

Philip watched the dynamic between them as they talked. He chimed in whenever John tried to include him but otherwise, he was content to listen and observe. Sherlock's love for John was readily apparent and bittersweet. Equally apparent was John's affection for Sherlock and enjoyment of his company. Half of the outrageous things Sherlock was deadpanning were intended to amuse John, who in turn, commiserated with Sherlock about his over-bearing brother.

They finished up the evening watching an episode of _Criminal Minds_ , which John had chosen because, since the programme's focus was on the behavioural motivations of the killers, it tended to disclose the killers up front and thwarted Sherlock. Unfortunately, it did not thwart Philip, who had a field day making John facepalm with his forensic analysis while Sherlock smirked. 

When the boyfriend was revealed to be an assassin and the whole thing a fantasy made up to keep the assassin focused on his target, John went very, very still. 

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. "John, I still believe--"

"Shut it," John said and got up to go to the bathroom. 

Sherlock and Philip looked at each other and Philip read the despair in Sherlock's eyes. 

* * * * 

Philip clocked off and reached for his jacket. A shadow fell across him and he turned and his face lit up in a smile. "Oh, thanks!" he said, taking the paper cup of tea that Sherlock offered him. "What brings you 'round?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I was in the area. I knew you'd be clocking off soon."

"Where's John?"

"On his way to work by now, I should think."

Philip nodded as he grabbed his knapsack. "I took the Tube today," he said as they walked out into the hallway towards the main door, "I was going to meet Benji at the station and then go for breakfast. You're welcome to come along if you like." Sherlock shrugged non-committally but Philip got a sense of agreement from him. Philip pushed open the main door, admitting a blast of chilly air, and strode out into the street. "Dull case?"

"Mm. We've reached a completely new level of idiocy. The suspect said he buried the victim in her own garden so the police would think it was suicide."

Philip nearly launched his hot tea out his nostrils. "Oh, so did the victim commit suicide and then bury herself in her own garden, or did she bury herself and then commit suicide?"

" **And** put the lawn back."

"That's the tricky bit." 

They stopped near the Tube station and waited. After a few minutes, another crowd of people streamed up the stairs. Philip smiled at one woman running up the steps and greeted her with a kiss. "Alright, love?"

"Yeah, fine. Sorry I'm late, the first train was too crowded and I couldn't get on. Sherlock!!"

"Hello again, Benji," Sherlock said distantly.

"Are you coming to breakfast with us? There's a diner we're going to, they do amazing pancakes."

"Mm. Some other time, perhaps," Sherlock said, not looking at her, "I think you two had best get moving on. Don't want your pancakes getting cold."

Philip looked at him; Sherlock's eyes hadn't stopped scanning the area. "What's going on?"

"I'm being hunted." Philip managed to keep his jaw in place by sheer willpower. "I suspected it on the way here but I became certain about a block ago."

"Go on then," Philip said, "She'll have a harder time tracking you on the Tube." He patted Sherlock on the shoulder, trying to make it look like a natural parting gesture. 

The pat turned into a shove and he stepped forward without thinking about it. He jerked as the bullet tore through his shoulder then he fell forward. Then the screaming started. "Get out of here," Philip rasped. 

Sherlock stared for less than a second, his phone already in his hand. A second shot clanged off metal. "Start screaming," he told Benji. He unwound his scarf and gave it to her, "Take this, put pressure on the wounds. If you have any sanitary napkins, use those too." Then he was gone, down the stairs towards the Tube.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never attempt to discuss sexuality and relationships with somebody who's tripped out on morphine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how Sherlock manages to stay coherent on the morphine pump because I sure as heck wasn't :3 And yes, morphine can have some really straaaaaange effects on your neurology.

It was mid-afternoon and no music was seeping through, unless one counted the beeping of the monitors. Philip's eyes were closed, his attention on his inner world as he recounted the morning's events. Finally he opened them, "That's all I can remember for now."

Lestrade finished recording and looked at him, "He's damned lucky you saw that targeting light but what the hell were you thinking?"

"I wasn't," Philip admitted, "I didn't have time to think, I just reacted."

Lestrade shook his head again and glanced outside, "Looks like you've got visitors waiting. I'll be in touch, yeah? And let me know if you remember anything else. You've got my mobile number."

"I will, thanks."

Philip sighed and sagged back, closing his eyes. He opened them again at the sound of soft footsteps shuffling into the room and saw a tall person in a bulky Cowichan jacket jumper and a watchcap. Thinking it might be a visitor for the other patient in the room, he closed his eyes again then a spike of danger shot through him when the figure drew closer. Then he recognised the distinctive cupid's-bow lip and smiled. "You were disoriented and going into shock," Sherlock said softly, "Yet you remembered all of that. Well done." Philip smiled. "Between you and Benji, Gordon will have everything he needs. A pity he won't find much."

"'Peg,'" Philip said then blanked for a moment, "No... 'Greg.'" Sherlock grinned. "Am I.... alright?"

"You're under the protection of the British government. So is Benji. You can sleep, but if you see two of your room-mate, you're not dreaming."

Philip looked over at the other bed but decided he had too much pain for that to make sense. "Oh. Okay." He looked back at Sherlock, "Wasn't a random shooting, was it?"

"No. It was a warning. That was notifying me that Moriarty's contract is active again."

Philip's brows drew together, "Will you have to fake your death again?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Not this time. I won't be allowed that luxury."

"Then why'd she give you a warning shot? She could've taken you out right then."

"That wasn't her," Sherlock smiled, "She's much more accurate than that." Sherlock shook his head and changed the subject, "What's the prognosis on your arm? You'll keep the use of it?"

Philip nodded, "Yeah, they think so. I don't really feel it right now but I expect I will, soon enough."

"And then they'll hook you up to the pump," Sherlock smirked, "You'll enjoy that."

"I really don't think I will," Philip chuckled. 

* * * * 

The door opened and John looked up. "About time you got home," he said, hiding his worry behind testiness, "How was Phil?" When no answer came, John turned around, "Sherlock?" 

"He's alright. He'll keep the use of his arm." Sherlock glanced at him and John saw he had That Look. 

He wasn't sure he could describe it; it was the look Sherlock got whenever he had something he knew he ought to tell John but didn't want to and didn't know how to break it. "It's Mary, isn't it." he said flatly. Sherlock's eyes flicked away. "Out with it."

Still wordless, Sherlock handed over a manila envelope. John slid out the photographs. "Mycroft's working on identifying the man," Sherlock said softly, "He'll be the shooter."

"What are they doing with their phones?"

"Mycroft thinks it's a Bitcoin transaction."

John rubbed his hand down his face and pressed his palm against his mouth, "Bloody hell." He put his face in his hands for a few moments then looked up, "Why did she hire someone? Why didn't she do it herself?"

"So that she could go home to you. Obviously."

"'Obviously,'" John mimicked, "Is this all just a fucking joke to you?"

Sherlock looked up and hurt flickered across his features before they hardened into his mask, "Don't be ridiculous, John."

John slammed his hands down onto his chair. "Oh **now** I'm being ridiculous!" John exploded, standing up and whirling around, "My **wife** hired somebody to **kill you** today, **your** friend is in hospital for it, and **you** think I'm being ridiculous!"

"I understand you're upset--"

"Oh good! You understand something! Finally! _Of course_ I'm bloody upset! Anybody would be bloody well upset! Anybody except Sherlock bloody Holmes, who thinks it's all a fucking _joke!_ "

Sherlock's chin tightened but John was gathering his jacket. "I'm not laughing, John."

"Good. Good. Wonderful. Lovely to hear. I'm..... I don't know. Going out. Getting some air."

"John..."

"Down the pub. I don't know. I'm...." He trailed off and left the flat, shaking his head. The doors slammed behind him. 

Sherlock stared straight ahead for several minutes. Finally he picked up his phone. 

(16:48) _Let's get this over with. -- SH_

* * * * 

Walking cleared John's head enough to remember to stay to highly trafficked areas, although this morning's incident showed that wasn't much of a deterrant. He rode the Tube for a bit but when he found himself near the hospital, he decided he should at least look in on the man who had saved Sherlock's life. 

Philip appeared to be sleeping when John arrived. He groaned and tossed his head then his eyes fluttered open as the pain woke him up. He smiled when he saw John, "Hi there."

"Hello," John said softly, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb your rest."

Philip made a face, "You didn't; this did."

John smiled, "Oh, I can relate. Took a shot through the left while I was in Afghanistan. That's what got me sent home."

"So we're shoulder brothers," Philip grinned.

"I guess we are," John agreed. 

"Y'here without Sherlock?"

John nodded, "I left him back at the flat, I.. He told me something and it's like it's all just a damned joke to him."

Philip gave himself a shot from the pump and sighed as the powerful painkillers flooded his system. "Why d'you say that?"

"I... It turns out my wife did this to you. She hired someone to shoot Sherlock."

"Yeah, he told me earlier."

John shook his head, "I asked why she would do that and he says, 'So she can go back to you, _obviously,_ ' and you know how he says that."

Philip thought about that, though he was starting to feel a bit floaty, "Mmmmyeah I guess it is rather obvious. 'Hallo, love, tea's up in a jiff, oh by the by, I shot your best friend again.' Doesn't make a very good impression. Mind you, neither does this."

"No, it really doesn't," John said sadly, "Dammit, I was happy with Mary!"

"No you weren't," Philip blurted. 

John stared at him, "What?"

"You're not happy. You're _so_ not happy," Philip's words slipped out more easily as he drifted higher, "You're alllll grouchy and you hardly eeever smile." John stared at him, remembering his patients' words. "Until you're with Sherlock. Then you're happy."

John shook his head, "Sherlock doesn't make me happy. ...Well, he _does_ , but most of the time he makes me aggravated--"

"He makes you feeeeeeeeeel things," Philip's voice was starting to slur. John shifted uncomfortably, aware that he was starting to blush. "Lots of things. Y'don't feel as many things when you're apart." John was silent. Philip shifted to look at him, "You make him happy too. You two're good f'r each other."

John blew his breath out at the ceiling in exasperation, "How many times do I have to say it? We're not a couple! I'm not gay!"

" _Stop saying that!_ " John's mouth snapped shut. "D'you have any idea how much it hurts him every time you say that? Like that's all it is? Like that's all that **matters**?" Philip struggled to face him, "That man gave up his life **three times** to keep you safe and alive and happy and all you can think about is _sex?_ " He slumped back onto the pillow, "No one does that for someone they just want to shag." 

John was silent for several minutes, thinking about the dreams he'd been having. He'd dreamed of Sherlock when he was with Mary but once he had moved back into 221b, his nightmares had decreased. Then he'd started having other kinds of dreams. He thought about how he'd woken in the middle of the night, spooned close against Sherlock's back. "You said... I'm happier. When I'm with Sherlock. It's that obvious?"

Philip grimaced and pressed the pump button again. "Yeahhhh." He worked his tongue as it started to go all weird-feeling. "You w're.. hollow. 'S jus' th' front of you."

"What?"

"Jus' the front of you. Y'look all right from in front, turn y'round and 's just a shell."

John couldn't help a bit of a grin, "So, like a woodwife, then? Is that what you mean?"

"Yeahhhhhhhhhh. All hollow. Nothing r'lly there. Like Sherrrrrrrrrrrr-lock." He flicked the '-lock', flicking his tongue like he was trying to shuck the word off of it. He felt 'smooth', like he was coated in gelatin or quicksilver, and it was difficult to get his mouth to cooperate. 

John startled slightly. "Sherlock is hollow?"

"Yeahhhhhhhh," Philip slurred. He ran his fingers over the skin of his arms, feeling how they swirled in the surreal smoothness. He focused on John with some effort, "'Til he's with you. Then he's Purrrrrrrrrrrrr-lock."

John started to giggle, "He's Purr-lock, is he? Bit like a cat, then?"

"Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, he's all fluffy and pouncy an an an an sits like a meatloaf." John laughed harder. "Yeahhhhhhhh, see? Happy."

John's smile faded and he looked away. "Why has he never said anything?"

Philip rolled his head, making a face as it sent ripples through his quicksilver skin. "'Coz you're not gay!" He slumped back against the pillow. "Obvious." Philip burst into giggles then abruptly slumped against the bedrail, fixing John with a lurid, drugged stare. "What would you do if you knew?"

John digested that for a moment then smirked, "I should know better than to be having this conversation with somebody who's higher than Big Ben." Philip giggled harder then sagged. John patted his hand, "I'll let you get some sleep. Rest up, get healthy. I'll help you work that shoulder when it's time, alright?"

He got up and passed Benji on her way in. "Doctor Watson! How is he?" she asked. 

"Flying higher than a kite right now," John chuckled, "So don't expect any kind of coherant conversation out of him. The drugs scramble the nervous system so he might do some things that look a bit strange, because he's feeling strange." She nodded understanding. "He needs as much rest as you can give him, so it's good you've brought a book." He patted her shoulder and took his leave. 

_"What would you do if you knew?" "I've never seen you smile before." "You're hollow. Nothing there. Just a shell." "What would you do if you knew?"_ The thoughts haunted him all the way back to Baker Street. 

Where he saw Sherlock fully kitted up, getting into a cab. **"Oi, SHERLOCK!"** Sherlock's eyes flicked onto him for just an instant, then he closed the door and it pulled away. 

But John had seen the look in his eyes. He thrust up a hand and another cab pulled up. "Follow that guy," he directed, getting in. At the nervous look the cabbie gave him, he explained, "He won the whole pot."

The cabbie laughed and pulled out into the street, following after Sherlock.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary makes her move and John has to deal with the fall-out.

The cab pulled up at an abandoned warehouse and Sherlock stepped out. A cold front was moving in and the wind was becoming biting. He buttoned his coat and turned his collar higher against the wind, fighting down a shiver. A memory surfaced; John had accused him of popping his collar to "look cool" but Sherlock simply didn't like the feeling of the wind against his neck. John liked to cling to his stories, though, now more than ever, it seemed. 

He slipped his gun out of its holster and went inside. Once inside, he paused, listening intently. The wind moaned through broken windows and dormant ventilation ducts and hanging strips of old plastic caused shadows that moved and danced across the floor and the deeper shadows cast by boxes and stub walls. Sherlock kept his gun cuddled close as he stepped out, then raised his arm and aimed. And waited. 

The shadows stirred and Mary stepped out, her own gun raised. They stared in sympathy at each other down the barrels of their guns. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mary said in a tight voice, "I really tried to avoid this outcome."

"I know," he said softly, "That's why you hired another shooter. That was a warning to me that Moriarty's contract had been re-activated." Mary nodded. "And they're using the same leveredge."

Mary nodded again, tears spilling over, "John. He dies if you don't. And I can't let that happen."

"Nor could I. That was why I had to do it that way."

"I don't think you can fake your way out of it this time," she said. 

"Perhaps not. But perhaps I won't have to if I'm faster."

Mary's lip twisted scornfully, "You're not faster than me."

"Normally, no, I wouldn't have a chance," Sherlock agreed, "But you're not feeling well. You haven't felt any movement for a long time, have you?" 

Mary cried harder. "I was hoping I was wrong. I was hoping she was just..."

"I know," Sherlock said sympathetically, "I'm sorry. I was looking forward to meeting her."

Mary nodded and wiped her eyes but her gun held steady, "This doesn't change anything."

"It does," Sherlock said, "You haven't gone into labour and sepsis has been setting in. You're not thinking clearly anymore and it's affecting your coordination. And that gives me a chance."

Mary wiped at her eyes again. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I liked you, I really did."

"I liked you too," he admitted.

"I'll keep my promise from the airport. I'll take good care of John," she said, and focused. 

The shot left his ears ringing. Mary screamed and collapsed, clutching her thigh. Sherlock darted forward and smacked the gun from her hand, then looked up to see John standing over them. 

He was smiling that smile. The smile that didn't have a drop of amusement in it, the smile that he got only when he was one hundred percent done. This time, the smile was not directed at Sherlock. "You were going to do it," John said to Mary, "You were going to shoot him. My best friend. You were actually going to shoot him, **again.** "

"John..."

"No. No. No more of this. We're done." He knelt beside her and took the pads out of his kit, pressing them hard against the wound. "I gave you a second chance, hm? And this is what you do with it."

"John, I didn't have a choice! Neither did he!"

John's glare was cold blue fire. "Don't. Don't you **dare** compare what you were doing with his sacrifice. Hm? Okay? Because it's not even remotely the same. He shot a man who was threatening you, to keep you - **you** \- safe. After **you** shot **him.** And you just tried to kill him again, **twice.** Don't even... just... just don't even..."

"John, they'll kill you."

"They can try," John agreed then looked at her with his mirthless smile, "But you're their best, aren't you? And I just brought you down. Fancy that." 

"John, please," Mary begged, "Please believe me. I love you."

He said nothing more as the sirens closed in. 

* * * * 

The walls of 221b Baker Street were filled with the soft strains of the violin. Sherlock stood at the window, playing a gentle, soothing tune as he gazed out over the street. John sat at the table, elbows resting on it, knuckles pressed against his chin, staring at his inner world. His mobile rang and Sherlock stopped playing. 

"I see. Thank you. Yes, I'll be down to sign the papers." John rang off and set the phone down then covered his face with his hands for a few moments. He rubbed his face then tilted his head in Sherlock's direction, not really looking at him. "Mary died during surgery to extract the baby. Lost too much blood. They think she contracted some kind of bacterial infection and that killed the baby and weakened Mary's system too much to cope."

Sherlock accepted the news sadly. "She was already in trouble, John," he said gently, "Yours was a very precise shot, placed to avoid critical blood loss. You did what you could to avoid this outcome so she must already have been much more ill than she appeared. You mustn't blame yourself."

"I don't," John snapped. "I'm upset about losing my wife, but I'm fine with putting down a terrorist assassin who tried to kill my best friend twice." He glared up at Sherlock, "And **you** , you unbelievable _cock_ \-- **You** were going to **let** her!"

Sherlock set his violin down but said nothing as John stood and approached him. "Do you have **any** idea what it would do to me to lose you _again?_ " John grated out, "Hm? After everything? After all this, you still think you can..." He trailed off and waved his arm, " _How_ do you still think that you can..."

"John..."

John faced him finally. He looked desperate and wrung out. "Sherlock," he said, "Sherlock, I need to know... and I need, I need the truth, no bullshit, no manipulations, no telling me what you think I want to hear. Right now, more than anything, I need to know... if I mean anything at all to you."

Sherlock considered for several moments. "No," he said finally. John threw up his hands and turned but stopped when Sherlock caught his wrist. He turned back to see the other man wide open, his shields collapsed. He saw everything there -- everything he'd seen on his stag night, at the wedding dance, and as Magnusson's body had crumpled to the ground. Sherlock took John's other hand and held both, gazing down at him with all the love and pain and devotion that had kept him going through the last three years, motivating him to die and stalk and endure and finally to kill. "You mean everything to me."

John looked down. Finally he extracted his hands, turned and left the flat. Sherlock let his hands fall to his sides, staring at the closed door long after John had left. He sat back down on the couch and curled up, hugging his knees to his chest, wondering what he had just done. John was straight and Sherlock was too contrary, too quirky and just too dangerous, as if simply being male wasn't enough. After a while, he reached for his phone and dialed. "...I think John's done for good."

"What happened?" Philip asked, sounding slightly muzzy. _On the downswing of a dose,_ Sherlock thought.

"I told him. He asked and I told him and then he just... left." Even to himself, Sherlock sounded utterly bewildered. 

Philip sighed, thinking. "I know this isn't your area," he said gently, "But don't give up on him just yet. I'm pretty certain he wouldn't have asked if he wasn't ready to face up to it."

"I'm not so sure..."

"I am. When he asked me to show him how to cook, I knew he was close. Why would he want to cook for you if he was planning to go back to her? He could have just kept on with his fry-ups and sandwiches if it was temporary." Sherlock was silent so Philip continued, "I've never met anyone as ignorant of their own motivations as Doctor Watson but I think, deep down, he'd already decided who he really wanted to stay with."

Sherlock snorted -- Philip had John pegged dead to rights, there. "I suppose."

"Ah and I've just had a visitor arrive. I'll call you back in a bit, okay?"

"Alright." Sherlock rang off. Then he grabbed John's jumper and curled up with it on the couch. 

* * * *

Philip rang off and set the phone down, then looked up at his visitor. "Hi, John."

"Phil..." John looked guilty. He knew he shouldn't be asking this, not while Philip was taking morphine. He knew he was taking advantage of the fact that the man's compromised state would circumvent his self-censoring and render him more completely honest. "I need to ask you something."

"Sure?"

"A while back... You were talking to Sherlock. About me. I'd come 'round the flat and... when I heard you talking, I stopped to listen."

"Okay," said Philip, at a loss for context.

"You said... You're straight, and you said... You said that if Sherlock wanted you, you'd make it work. How? How would you make it work?"

Philip stared at him. Finally, he said, "I dunno." John sagged with an exasperated sigh. "What does **he** want? I mean, have y'ever asked?" John shook his head. "Why not?"

"Because I'm not gay," John said, "And it's a bit weird."

"It is?"

"Well yeah, I mean.. Hang on, do you mean **you've** asked?"

"Well.... yeah?"

"And he's told you?"

"A bit, yeah. I mean, we never really talked about sex but I know he likes sleeping with you."

"He does?"

"And he likes when you snuggle him in your sleep."

"He does?"

"Mm-hmm," Philip nodded, "Even though you said no snuggling but when you're asleep, he said you latch on like a barnacle."

John rubbed his forehead. He'd woken up like that a few times, in the middle of the night, but he'd always thought that Sherlock had been asleep. 

"What're y' so afraid of?"

The question caught John completely off guard and his mind tilted, not because he didn't know the answer but because he _did._ He looked away. Instead of answering, he said "I'm not even sure of how he feels. He thinks love is a 'chemical defect found on the losing side'" Philip started giggling again at John's perfect imitation. "You know what he told me once? He called love a 'human error.' Everything he's done, everything he's gone through that makes me think he means it, and then he goes and calls it 'human error.'"

Philip snorted. "You realise he's talking about h'mself, right?" John stared at him. Philip shrugged then grimaced in pain as the movement jostled his injury.

"Yeah, no, don't do that, don't try to shrug with a shot shoulder," John smiled gently. 

Philip pressed the pump button and sighed. "Th'thing is," he said, "In law'nforcement, we see a lot of diff'nt kinds of love, right? Like th'kind where y'pull a bloke off a girl he's kickin' coz she tried t'leave 'im when all he ever did was love 'er, right? That sort'f thing. So maybe, so maybe he don' like that word an' he don' want what he feels f'r you t'be assosh.. asshtoast.. He don' wanna think o'things like that when he thinks 'bout you." John stared at him, thunderstruck. "I dunno, 'm just guessing."

"No," John said thoughtfully, "What you say makes sense." He patted Philip's good shoulder and got up, "I'll let you get some rest. But... thank you. It helps."

John took his leave then went down to fill in the paperwork confirming the death of Mary Elizabeth Watson. He felt cold as he signed, feeling as though he was signing away a dream. _I'll have to do something about the house,_ he thought sadly. As he walked out of the hospital, it occurred to him that he could keep it, which is about when he realised that he had no intention of moving back out of 221b Baker Street. 

He got on the Tube and found a seat where he could gaze out of the window. _"What are you afraid of?"_ The question was unsettling because he knew exactly what he was afraid of: _Harry._ Life after coming out hadn't gone easily for Harry. The discrimination she'd been subjected to, the verbal and emotional abuse, the way their parents had shunned her -- it had all taken its toll on Harry and driven her down her alcoholic road. He would face the same trials. He wasn't sure if he could handle them any better than Harry had. 

Sherlock had often wondered why it mattered to John so much, what people said about them, but John knew why. He was a creature of the herd and there was no more herd-like environment than the army. One **had** to fit in, if one was to survive in the armed forces. He was free of that environment but he was born with that mind.

What if he couldn't... get into it? although given some of the dreams he'd been having, apparently that wasn't really an issue.

What if he could but Sherlock wasn't into it? this seemed a likelier concern, given he'd never seen Sherlock show a sexual interest in anybody.

_My wife and baby just died and I'm thinking about Sherlock Holmes. What is wrong with me?_

Sunlight suddenly flooded the train car and he looked up to see that they were approaching Leinster Gardens. Leinster Gardens, where Sherlock had set Mary up to reveal herself before John. Where she had confirmed that it was she who had shot Sherlock and nearly killed him. 

_"John can’t ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever, and I will never let that happen." "There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening." "John, please believe me. I love you."_

_So you tried to kill my best friend? Twice. And you hired someone else to kill him, too, and put our friend in hospital._

_"Maybe he doesn't want what he feels for you to be associated with that."_

_I gave you a second chance because he trusted you. Because **he** believed you. And you tried to kill him again._

_"Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side." "You realise he's talking about himself, right?"_

_I didn't. I didn't realise. I think I saw a bit of it at the wedding but by then it was too late._

_I nearly kissed him on our stag night._

_That was a fun night. A by-the-corpses pub crawl, what an idea. Most fun I've had in ages._

_I nearly kissed him. And I think he would have been fine with it._

He got off the Tube and took the bus to his house. He went around, collecting the rest of his belongings as he considered what to tell his landlord. He'd have to clear out Mary's things as well. He paused at the door of the baby's room. He leaned against the jamb and sighed, looking at the crib with the little mobile hanging above it. He could handle losing Mary but losing the baby... 

He looked around at what was left of his dream life -- wife, child, practice, bike to work in the morning, pub after, a normal daily routine... The rustling of his bag drew his attention to the trembling in his hands. He thought about what he was going back to, a life of chasing criminals, dodging danger, badgering a grown man to eat and sleep. And there'd be assassins after him as well. **And** he'd be Doctor Hostage again, most likely, for God's sake. Sherlock had a point about that, not even a few hours after he'd resurfaced and John had been drugged and kidnapped. 

Because he'd grown complascent. He needed to cultivate his soldier eyes again. An assassin had shot at Sherlock in full morning at a busy train station in rush hour; if he was going to live, he needed to train himself again. He felt his resolve solidify and noticed that his hands were steady again. 

He picked up his bag and went home.

* * * *

The flat was heavy with the smell of fennel when John opened the door. The empty glass sat on the coffee table, the perforated spoon sitting beside it and the empty tumbler of ice water. Sherlock lay on the couch, his back to the door, curled up into a tight little ball. _"an' he sits like a meatloaf."_ \-- John couldn't help giggling. 

Sherlock twitched at the sound and tipped his head to glance over his shoulder. His eyes were rimmed red and his skin was pale. _He hides his pain like a cat, too,_ the realisation hurt. John set his bag down and closed the door. "Sherlock?" he said softly, "Can we talk a little?" Sherlock made a non-committal noise and John came over to sit on the couch, "Budge up a bit?" Sherlock rolled over, looking confused as John lay down beside him, barely fitting onto the narrow couch. He laid his hand over Sherlock's and gazed at them for a long time before he spoke again. "I'm sorry. I've been an arse," he said softly, "I've been completely blind to how you feel about me. It just... wasn't on my radar at all and that's caused you a lot of pain."

"This is my problem, John. I know you're straight and that's fine. I have no need of--"

John let his finger stay on Sherlock's lips for a moment, seizing the moment. "But do you have want of?" Sherlock looked confused for a moment then flushed red and looked away. John squeezed his hand lightly. "Is that a yes?" Sherlock looked back at him, still confused. "Is it?"

"I.... don't know."

John smiled, "You don't know if you want me or not?"

"I.. The way you mean it, I.."

John shook his head and sighed, "I don't even know how I mean, anymore. I don't know anything right now. Right now, all I'm certain of is there's a man who loves me and the years I spent living with him were the happiest years of my life. I've been oblivious to his feelings for me and I've been oblivious to my own feelings for him."

Sherlock was silent for a long time. "Oh."

"Yeah. So... If it's something you'd want to try, I could give it a go."

"What if we're...not compatible, though?"

"Well... You're a genius and I'm good at improvising with available resources, I'm sure we can accomodate somehow." He turned to grin at Sherlock and nearly fell off the couch. Sherlock seized him around the waist to keep him from falling and John shifted onto his side so that he was the little spoon. He felt Sherlock's breath ruffle his hair and sighed. 

"John...? Does this count as snuggling?"

John thought for a moment. "No," he said, "But it does count as cuddling."

"Oh. ...What's the difference?"

"Well, it's easier to show than to explain." John scootched onto his back again and put his arm around Sherlock, drawing his head lower and onto his chest. He wrapped his arms securely around the other man and nuzzled into the dark curls. "This is only for demonstration purposes, mind."

"Hm." Sherlock rubbed his cheek against John's chest and lay still. After a few moments, he said, "Can I try it? I'm not sure I quite understand the difference."

"Alright, but just this once," John grinned and they scootched around until John was lying with his cheek on Sherlock's chest, cocooned in Sherlock's arms. "You're probably going to delete this, aren't you."

"I have to make room for _important_ information, John." John glanced up at him and they both broke up giggling. Sherlock tentatively rested his cheek against the top of John's head and sighed. 

"Alright?"

Sherlock hesitated before answering. "Mycroft said that Mary had given up quite a lot of information about Moriarty's network before she died. There's a lot of work left to do and they want us dead."

John nodded but was silent for a few moments. "We go through it together this time, though, alright? No leaving me behind? I can't do it again, Sherlock. I need to _know_ what I'm going into."

Sherlock sighed, defeated. "Alright."


End file.
